


rot

by deansmultitudes



Series: September 18th [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon Universe, Dean Winchester is Saved, Dean's Re-Birthday, Gen, Memories, Season/Series 15, coffin, phantom smell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26526466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deansmultitudes/pseuds/deansmultitudes
Summary: Dean still remembers the fetor of rot that filled his casket.
Series: September 18th [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/826050
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	rot

**Author's Note:**

> Celebrating the day Dean Winchester got saved from Hell. Happy Rebirthday, baby!

Dean still remembers the fetor of rot. It obscured the wooden smell of his pine box and the moldy scent of the soil above him. There was nothing rotting in that casket. Not anymore. He was whole. At least, his body was.

It was not, by far, the worst stink he’s ever smelled. He’s been through sewage, he’s been through toilets at the back of the gas stations, he’s been through the traces of sulfur beneath his fingernails and on top of his bones. And it could never come close to the stench of seared meat—human meat—melting fat, dripping off the tissue only to fuel the flames.

But it’s that fetor of rot, concentrated in his tiny space and nauseatingly sweet, that every so often floods him in his sleep and lingers once he’s awake. And the room is dark and the sheets weigh heavy on him like six feet of that soil and he’s back in that box, back in that epicenter of a miraculous blast that brought him back, made him whole. Kept the stench.

Tonight is one of those nights.

His arm thrusts up, like a twitch. Doesn’t hit the lid. His nails won’t have to bleed again, he won’t have to claw his way out, crawl through the splinters biting into his skin, dig through the dirt as his lungs cry for air.

They still gasp for it; deep, heavy gulps of air. And the deeper he inhales, the thicker the odor, spilling into his throat like molasses. Like rot.

Calm down. He must slow down his breathing, quiet it, quiet his mind. It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s been twelve years. How is this still happening?

Tonight, of all nights. Not that he’s been marking the calendar.

And it’s not even hell. It’s just decomposing; it’s death. Or maybe it’s life. Or maybe it’s that, for a hunter, it’s been too damn many coffins, between pine and metal. The only way he’ll go out for good is a pyre and the scent of ash and the scent of burned meat on the crackling fire and the dark, rising smoke.

But it’s not now, yet. Because he has God to defeat and the world to save. And if the last twelve, or fifteen, or forty-one years taught him something it’s that he’s not gonna make it easy or pretty.

And that he’ll kick and bite and claw the entire way through.

The only thing that’ll go rotting will be the corpse of God.

Dean breathes in and out, slowly. The air’s cleared, the fetor’s gone. There’s only the faint scent of old books, and empty beer bottles, and the mostly worn out fragrance of the cheap washing powder in his sheets.

He’s only home, safe for the moment, and free.

He can go back to sleep. Tomorrow’s just another day.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos always very much appreciated!
> 
> Find this story on [tumblr](https://deansmultitudes.tumblr.com/post/629603491197927424/dean-still-remembers-the-fetor-of-rot-it-obscured)


End file.
